


Submission

by IndependenceDayChild17



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Physical Abuse, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndependenceDayChild17/pseuds/IndependenceDayChild17
Summary: 1718 - She’s never left you wanting before.2015 - She’ll never leave you wanting.





	1. 1718

“You’re late.” Maman’s voice was flat, stony. She was angry.

 

She was beautiful when she was angry.

 

“I didn’t think your guests would miss me.” You rasp, sauntering towards her. You lick a bit of the blood off your lips – _pain, fear, death_. You want her to taste it. You want her to know you’ve killed.

 

She loves it when you kill.

 

“Besides . . . “ You sit on her lap, brazenly coating her gown in blood. “I’ve had the most wonderful night.” You nip at her neck and she growls, the sound coming from deep within her. You shiver, but ignore the warning.

 

She allows you to continue, your hands working on releasing her from the ruined garment, your mouth working its way up her neck gently until she can taste the not-quiet-dry blood that covers it.

 

It is at that moment when she moves. Suddenly you are on the bed, your hands above your head as she ties them to the posts. When the ropes are secure she rips your clothes off, leaving you naked and vulnerable before her.

 

She drops what’s left of her gown, a black silk shift all that remains between your eyes and her beauty. You let out a whine. The kill has filled you with bloodlust and your body is begging for release.

 

“You have been a bad girl.” Her voice is cold, calculating; but even as it scares you, you can feel your want building. She moves towards you, her gaze predatory. _She wants to hurt you_ , you realize suddenly but with less alarm than was probably wise.

 

Her touch is gentle: brushing down between your breasts, caressing your stomach. You whimper as her fingers come to rest just above where you want them most. Between the bloodlust and _her_ it’s all you can do to keep from exploding.

 

“Please, Maman.” You hear yourself begging and she smiles maliciously; you’ve made a mistake.

 

“Patience is a virtue, darling.” Her hand moves away and you go cold. “Perhaps you’ll learn that one day.” You hear the door close and let out a moan. She’s never left you wanting before.


	2. 1789

“We need to get out of here.” Maman’s voice is quiet, but forceful. It was unlike her to sound so panicked.

 

“I know Mother, but that might be difficult with barricades in the streets.” Mattie sounded worried as well, but there was an edge to her voice; one that not many could get away with.

 

You slowly drag yourself into the room, blood staining your clothes, your mouth, your hair. “You’re missing the party.” You drawl, licking your lips.

 

“My God.” Mattie sighs out when she sees you. She starts to move towards you, but Maman catches her wrist.

 

She stands in front of you, her eyes more dead than usual. They flick up and down, taking you in, and when you look into them again your surprised by the disgust. You frown. “Go clean up. We leave in an hour.”

 

Mattie and her raised eyebrow embolden you. “But there’s so much happening here.” You whine, uncaring of the twitch at the corner of Maman’s mouth. “What’s so much better about your silly little games – “

 

The slap knocks you to the floor.

 

She’s never struck you before – not in anger. You’ve never even considered the possibility. But the sting across your face says otherwise. It hurts almost as much as the humiliation.

 

“I tire of your insolence.” Her voice sounds bored but she glares at you as your hand comes involuntarily to caress your jaw. “You will wash and be ready to leave in an hour.” She turns to Mattie, “Do I make myself clear.” It is not a question.

 

“Of course, Maman. I will see to the arrangements.” Mattie dips her head as she leaves. You stare at your sister, momentarily sure that she will embarrass you further; but instead she sighs and offers you a hand up. “You get used to it, dear.”


	3. 1951

Your stomach rumbles in displeasure. You haven’t eaten in a week. Soon your carcass will begin to shake and shiver, racked with pain, but you continue to lie limp on the stone of Parisian streets as homeless men and women scurry by. Your body protests: nerves burning at the inaction, at your neglect of primal instincts.

 

You can’t find the will to care this time.

 

Ever since the coffin, feeding has lost its pleasure. Mouthfuls of blood taste like ash on your tongue – bland and burning – seemingly coagulating in your throat, chocking your lungs. Every time you must force yourself to swallow and pray to keep it down.

 

You are falling asleep – or losing consciousness, the difference means little to you now – when you hear a familiar gasp. There are words, a language that envelops you like a long-lost friend; gentle hands that smooth sticky hair from your face and brush the soot from your eyes.

 

“Mein glitzerndes mächden.” She croons and your body goes cold with fear.

 

Your eyes go wide and you scramble from her embrace. You’re mumbling, sounds that have no meaning but mean everything in the moment, but she doesn’t move except to smile. It’s a sad, mournful thing: pitying in ways that churn your stomach, as comforting as the ache of old wounds.

 

Perhaps she won’t kill you.

 

The thought is heartbreaking. She advances on you cautiously as if approaching a wild animal. Maybe that’s what you are, nothing more than the monster she had made you. If you had more strength you might have fought – or run, as futile as either effort would have been – but instead you stay perfectly still as she kneels beside you. She cups your face and you flinch, earning only a frown in return.

 

Is it a warning? Or is that unfamiliar look in her eyes remorse? It’s been so long you can’t say for certain. The pieces are all there but you’re a child playing with matches – ignorant and foolish.

 

“I have missed you, darling.” She whispers, voice trembling, and you say nothing as she pulls you in to her arms, lifts you from the streets of hell, and breathes you back to life for a second time.

 

“Mother.”


	4. 1995

Your sitting in Maman’s office, waiting. You know she is displeased with you. William had made it quiet clear when he’d come to fetch you, and you can’t help the rising panic: your leg is bouncing; your hands clench the antique chair a little too tightly.

 

You don’t know what she will do to you, but you think you’d rather die than be forced back into that damned box. You hear her heels click at the end of the hallway and you briefly consider running, but suddenly the door opens and its too late.

 

“Mircalla.” Disappointment.

 

You can work with disappointment. You’ve learned to fear her anger – give in to any demands when her hand is at your throat, but disappointment is never as severe.

 

“Maman.” You cast your eyes to the ground, stilling your leg, releasing the chair to clasp your hands in your lap – the perfect Countess. Your father would have been proud.

 

You can feel her staring, waiting for you to say something. You don’t, afraid anything you say might be turned into a weapon – the most casual of phrases twisted into days of pain.

 

Finally she sighs. “What are we going to do with you.” You don’t respond. “I have tried to be lenient since you returned to us,” your eyes flick up momentarily in fear, but she doesn’t catch them. “However, you have antagonized me at every turn.” She shakes her head in seeming despair. “William even claims that you’re purposefully chasing girls away.”

 

You are. You both know it. You can’t stand to let them be taken anymore – not after Ell.

 

“I will be gone for the next few weeks.” You look up suddenly, the change in topic unexpected.

 

“Gone?” Your surprise seems to amuse her, until the smirk twists into something darker.

 

“Yes. I have business in the States.” You frown. It’s unlike her to leave during a semester. “And now I have quiet the predicament.”

 

She looks at you expectantly, as if she’d asked you a question. You look down quickly, whispering. “What are you going to do with me?”

 

You hear her sigh again. You’ve heard the murmurs of course. Your new brothers and sisters had not seen her throw your beaten, broken body into a coffin of blood. They are restless and unsympathetic, angry with their master’s patience for you.

 

“I am leaving you with William.” You almost growl, hoping you’d stopped the noise in time, but the flash of anger in her eyes tells you she heard.

 

You’re against the wall in a moment, her hand to your throat. You do not need to breath, but she is not gentle. “That is enough!” She growls, slamming your head into the wall for emphasis. It all goes **black**.

 

The next thing you know two of Maman’s new creations pull you into the walk-in-freezer and shackle you to the ceiling. William is there: malice in his eyes, in his smile. “Take care of her while I’m gone.” Maman’s voice is soft, her eyes filled with something close to guilt. In a past life you would have gone with her – you both regret that life is gone.

 

“I will return when I can.” You hear her leave. William snaps his fingers; a cruel smile mars his face. The beating begins.


	5. 2015

The bedroom door slams close. “You’ve been a bad girl.” You gulp; your eyes nervously flicker between her face and the ground.

 

“I – I’m sorry.” You sputter out. “Please forgive me?” You settle on the ground; the look on her face is too much.

 

She signs dramatically; slowly moving towards where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps . . .” She hums, pushing you down gently, “You can make it up to me.”

 

You nod your head frantically; eager to please; desperate to make up for disappointing her (later you’ll remember this was just a scene – you’d done nothing wrong).

 

“Good.” She takes a step back and you instantly miss the light tough of her fingers. “Strip.” She orders; you comply as quickly as possible as she watches you – face bored (but you can hear the frantic pounding of her heart).

 

You look into her eyes expectantly. “Bend over the bed.” You suck in a breath that you don’t need, your excitement building as quickly as your nerves, and obey. She walks around to the table, grabbing the hairbrush where you’d left it for her.

 

“You have been a very bad girl, Carmilla.” Laura’s voice lingers on your name, and you’re sure she’s enjoying this as much as you are. “As punishment you will be spanked ten times.” Your dripping, anticipation building (this had been an excellent idea), you can’t help but tense as she nears.

 

She grabs a fist full of your hair, pulling your head back, – hard enough to hurt in all the right ways – and growls in your ear. “I want to hear you scream.”

 

She’ll never leave you wanting.


End file.
